


The Lost Boy

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales: Interlude [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is a collector of lost souls, M/M, Pre-Slash, Teenlock, alternate first meeting, sherlock is snarky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12116643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes.





	The Lost Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here, finally, is the last in this little series of Postcard Tales. I hope you have enjoyed them so far and will think that this one is a nice way to finish. Now I can get back to working on my long historical story, at least for the next five weeks. Then I will be off to London. I have already [blindly, as always] picked the cards for the new series, so I hope you will be looking forward to those as much as I am. Thanks, as always for the kudos and comments; you make all the work worthwhile.

He left just before tea time.

It was the sound of the meds trolley, with its eternally squeaking wheel, [why could no one fix that bloody thing?] moving down the corridor that was the final straw.

He arranged the towels from his ensuite, as well as some clothing under the blanket, so that a casual glance would lead someone to think that he was having a nap. Or, more likely, a sulk. In any event, the aide would just let him skip tea. They gave in to him more often than not, because no one wanted to be the object of his scathing tongue. No one would even know that he was gone until they came to fetch him for dinner, attendance at which was mandatory.

The staff’s tendency to cater to his moods was a topic of conversation at every staff meeting, which he knew about only because, when the boredom became overwhelming, he occasionally hid in the linen cupboard and eavesdropped on the complaining. No one was happy that, as one nurse put it, a sixteen-year-old boy seemed to be running the ward.

No doubt they would be happy when he was gone. He wondered if they would even notify his parents or maybe just enjoy the peace and quiet for a while.

Finally, he shoved a change of clothing into his school rucksack, then added his contraband cigarettes and the money he had taken from Mummy or Mycroft every time they visited. He didn’t steal from Daddy when he visited, because the money was always offered. Daddy was too kind-hearted, Sherlock sometimes thought. At the last minute, he crammed in his well-thumbed copy of Forensic Entomology: The Utility of Arthropods in Legal Investigations, a birthday gift from Mycroft.

Then, not for the first time, he went out the window, grateful again for his ground floor room. It was easy enough to evade the solitary guard on duty at the front gate just by waiting until he ducked down to take a drink of vodka from his secret flask. 

Sherlock headed for the road, leaving the Whitford Psychiatric Clinic behind.

+

The boy had been perched on the bench for over two hours. A rucksack rested on his lap and both of his arms were wrapped around it. As if he needed the ballast to keep from floating away.

John himself had been sitting in the Nero coffee shop for those same two hours, plus a few minutes more. He was supposed to be revising for his UKCAT and BMAT, which he was, really. But his gaze kept wandering back to the boy on the bench.

He was pale and gangly, with a riot of dark curls, wearing a faded t-shirt with [as best John could tell, from the distance] the periodic table on the front. It was hard to judge his age, but John thought at least several years younger than his own eighteen years.

When he was six years old, John had found a stray puppy behind the green grocer. He immediately named him Ollie and took him home. By the time the owner showed up the next day, John was already in love. But his father told him to stop snivelling and be a man. The silly woman had papers to prove that Ollie [or Albert, apparently] was hers, so John said good-bye to the pup, although not without telling the woman that she should take better care.

After that experience, John had the reputation of being a collector of all the lost and broken creatures he came across. A steady stream of dogs, cats, hamsters and other wounded beings spent time in the Watson’s garden shed. Those who knew him [or at least those who paid attention, which was a small number] were not surprised when he announced his intention of becoming a doctor.

They did not know of his plans to also join the army once he’d qualified.

Taking one last sip of his now-cold coffee, John thought that he could recognise a stray when he saw one. He packed up his textbooks and hand-scribbled notes, tossed the rest of the coffee into bin and left the Caffe Nero.

Outside, he took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, setting the bag of books at his feet. It was quite a pleasant day and he just enjoyed it for a moment, before speaking. “Nice to see the sun for a change,” he said. “After all the rain.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see the thin, pale arms tighten around the rucksack. “My mother always told me not to talk to strange men while waiting at bus stops,” the boy said and the voice was a surprise. Deeper than expected [he upped his guess on the age of the boy a bit] and posher than expected. Additionally, there was within the words a certain dry wit that belied the boy’s appearance.

This close, he was able to see the bruise under one eye, the swollen lip, grazed knuckles. John nodded. “Good advice. But I just watched you let seven buses go by without boarding any one of them.” He was suddenly aware of a pair of silvery green eyes flickering over him.

Something that could not really be called either a smile or a smirk crossed the boy’s face. “Oh, you’re an aspiring doctor, so caretaking comes naturally.”

Surprised, John stared at him. All posh and pale and more than a bit snarky. But those oddly compelling eyes spoke of intelligence. “How do you know that?” he asked.

For the first time, there was a hint of humour in his eyes. Just a hint. “Beyond the titles of the books into your bag, you mean?”

He glanced at the books in the canvas tote from the Natural History Museum. “Clever,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t notice.”

“Most people are idiots,” the boy said crisply. His words had the ring of an oft-repeated mantra.

There was a brief silence between them.

“Are you all right?” John asked finally. “You look as if someone took a few punches at you.”

He gave a careless wave, dismissing it. “They were after my money.”

“Did they get it?”

“Yes.” Then the boy snickered. “Although since I stole it first, I suppose complaining would be a bit hypocritical.”

John frowned.

“Does it count if I only took from family?”

For some reason, John couldn’t help laughing at that, although he knew it was a bit not good. “You have a name?”

“Of course I do.”

John waited a moment, then shrugged. “I’m John Watson,” he said. When there was still nothing forthcoming from the boy, he said, “You hungry? I fancy a sandwich.” He stood.

“You can call me Scott,” was the eventual reply. “I have no way of paying for a sandwich. Remember the whole getting assaulted and robbed behind the Boots thing?”

“My treat.” John turned around and started walking, headed for the Pret a Manger just across the street. He didn’t relax until he heard the soft slap of trainers against the pavement as Scott followed him.

A few minutes later, they were seated at an outdoor table. John unwrapped his chicken Caesar and bacon carefully, then lifted the baguette and took a bite. Meanwhile Scott [John was not terribly confident about that name, but it served the purpose] eyed his own prosciutto and parmesan with scepticism, even though he had picked the bloody thing himself. Finally he started to eat, taking small, tidy bites and repeatedly casting dark glances towards a spy camera high on the Barclays across the road.

They were halfway through the meal before anyone spoke.

“What are you running away from?” John asked, making the question casual, as if most of his attention was actually on the bag of vinegar salt crisps that lay on the table between them.

Scott did not look at him. “Who says I’m running away from anything?” he said sullenly.

John gave a short chuckle. “I am a past master of the practice. Once I ran all the way to Edinburgh.”

Scott took a swallow of his lemonade. “I was bored where I was,” he said. “All their stupid questions.” He paused, glancing at John hesitantly. “I am a high functioning sociopath,” he announced.

“Are you indeed?” John said in a mild voice.

“I gave them the diagnosis, but they still wouldn’t let me leave.”

“You gave them the diagnosis? Doesn’t it usually work the other way around?”

“Well, they are all idiots. As I said.”

“No doubt they are,” John said drily.

Now the gaze on him was stony. “Are you siding with them?”

John shook his head. “Sometimes,” he said carefully, “the world cannot understand people who are different.”

Scott faltered for a moment, then sneered at him. “Different? Is that just a nice way of saying ‘freak’?”

“Not at all,” John said. “Sometimes it is a way of saying…brilliant or extraordinary.”

Scott looked at him for a long moment. “I think that you will be a very good doctor,” he said.

“I hope so. I want to be.”

They both looked at the last crisp before Scott reached out and grabbed it quickly. Once he had swallowed it, he studied John again. “But there is something else…” Then he frowned. “You want to do something…the military?”

John smiled faintly. “Like I said, extraordinary.”

A barely visible hint of pinkness touched Scott’s cheekbones.

“What about you? Any goals?”

“Getting out of the mental ward would be good,” was the acerbic reply.

“Yes, I agree with you there. But beyond that, what do you like?”

“I play the violin. I have taken chemistry classes at the university level.”

“Ah, I’ve befriended a real renaissance man.”

After a slightly bewildered glance at him, Scott returned to watching something across the street. “I like puzzles. Mysteries. When I get bored, I solve crimes in the newspapers and send anonymous tips to the idiots at the Yard.”

“Wow,” John said. “You are definitely the most interesting person I have ever met.” Then feeling a bit embarrassed by his words, he briskly gathered the detritus of their meal and stepped away to put it into the bin.

When he sat down again to finish his tea, Scott was looking at him. “Did you mean that?”

He did not have to ask what Scott was talking about. Instead, he gave one firm nod before asking, “How old are you?”

Scott was watching the street again. “Sixteen,” he said absently. Then he stiffened. “Damn,” he said.

John followed his gaze. A long black car had pulled up to the kerb and two men stepped out. In their black suits and Ray-bans, they looked, John thought, like a couple of body guards. They were heading for their table.

Scott leaned forward, closer to John. He spoke softly and quickly. “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “They will be taking me back to the Whitford Clinic.” His face was desperate.

“Okay.” The men had almost reached them. “I’ll find you,” John said, not even knowing what the hell he meant by those words.

“Sherlock,” one of the men said. “Your brother sent us to collect you.”

“I’m surprised you could understand the order through the cake that was undoubtedly in his mouth at the time,” Sherlock said airily, all of his desperation apparently gone. He stood. “Thank you for the lunch, John,” he said.

“No problem, Sherlock” John said.

Without another word, Sherlock spun on his heel and walked towards the car. One of the men sighed and picked up the rucksack he’d left sitting next to the chair. Without a word to John, he followed the other two to the car.

John watched as the car slid effortlessly into the traffic flow.

A moment later, it was as if nothing at all had happened. As if the boy on the bench, with the sharp tongue and alien eyes, had been nothing but a fantasy John had spun while bored over his revising.

At the same time, oddly, it felt as if something very significant had happened, although he didn’t have the vaguest idea what that _something_ might have been. John Watson had met Sherlock Holmes. It seemed quite likely that the universe had never even noticed. 

John Watson had met Sherlock Holmes.

He picked up his bag and walked towards the tube station. Despite the fact that probably [undoubtedly] the universe had paid absolutely no mind, John could not help feeling that his world, at least, had tilted just a bit on its axis. That was enough for now.

#

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Lost Boy by Alberto Arbasino


End file.
